


Monster

by AeeDee



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Sex, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Exhibitionism, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-31
Updated: 2013-08-31
Packaged: 2017-12-25 04:45:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/948772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AeeDee/pseuds/AeeDee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At a formal masquerade party with Gotham's elite, Bruce has an interesting encounter with a certain bird. Primarily Bruce's POV. It's an unconventional take on their relationship, but I felt like exploring it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Monster

**Author's Note:**

> I will confess, there's a small trace of misogyny in this POV. This perspective is a reflection of how I felt about Bruce's mentality when I wrote this over a year ago, so if I told the story now I'd portray it a bit differently. While I do still believe Bruce (and to a lesser extent, Dick) would judge Gotham's socialites critically, were I to approach this subject now I'd shift the tone a bit.

The room is glittering with stars; the ringing of champagne glasses and the idle chatter of socialite masses. Empty brains and pretty voices, with a few complete human beings among them. Sparkling dresses and sharp suits and polished black shoes and a stone floor that echoes each footstep. The pained cry of a distant violin, as it sings its sorrows. The blinding lights as they sparkle above, reflected from glass shards of chandeliers that drift and rotate slowly.

Standing in the corner of the room, being charmed by two beautiful women is a man in a black suit, stiffly balancing a glass of wine between his fingers. The women, to look above their bountiful breasts and statuesque bodies, hide their faces behind Venetian masks, dots of glitter and gold acrylic lining their empty eyes and silver paint tracing their paper mâché lips. They are both identical; in real life they’re not twins, but it’s a night for fantasy. It’s a night to bend the rules.

The one with black hair leans over his shoulder, a delicate hand caressing his arm, long and black fingernails pinching at the fabric. “¿No se siente cómodo,” in a sultry murmur, “en esa ropa pesada?” Her companion slowly slinks forward, to press against him on the other side, leaning her body against his in a way that’s almost indecent, her hips making direct contact with his thighs. But this is a night to be bold; only if he could see her face, would he feel inclined to judge her.

Among them, he’s the coward. His voice a low response, curt and short, “Me siento bien.” Any other day, he may have responded differently. In a different week. In a different month. But there was something more pressing—someone more significant—on his mind.

His cold response puts some space between them; breathing room. And the man with a mask like a monster tilts his head upwards, gazing out across the floor. A floor of shallow, beautiful people; all mocked up to look like finely dressed creatures of folklore and festival. Even if he didn’t know who they each were, he knew their identities well enough. He knew their identity as a whole; they were the demons of Gotham. The rich and the blessed, the selfish and the bold. The underworld that sucked its soul dry.

Bruce hates to be in the company of these people. He hates their hands on him. Their voices, pretending to care when they only want attention. Their suggestive bodies and words, when none of it holds any substance. He hates them. He hates everything about them.

And yet he can walk among them, unseen. He has a perfect disguise; he is a part of the disease. He is the privileged, selfish monster that preys on Gotham. But he firmly believes the city will thank him later. Once he’s finished making her bleed. He draining out the toxins, one by one.

He raises his wine glass to his mouth, taking a slow sip as his eyes continue to roam the floor. _He’s late._ He shouldn’t be. But he’s late.

He starts to wonder if something happened.

But when he stops to think for just that moment, tunes out thoughts of the women draping themselves across his shoulders, and the loud chatter of voices from all around; when he stops and thinks alone in his head, in that silent space, the answer is remarkably clear.

Nothing’s wrong. This is normal.

What would be abnormal, is if he arrived on time. Without any delays or distractions. No women fawning over him; his tight body, his elegant attire, the inevitable grin below the edge of his mask. No conversations sparking up everywhere he goes, because others feed off his voice like a strong alcohol. Somehow it bewitches them; not from the sound or the raw words, but the way he addresses them when he speaks, each and every one of these disgusting people, like they are worthy of his time. He addresses every single one like they hold a special value in his heart, an affection unique and specifically designed for them.

Bruce appreciates and hates that quality. He’s jealous of it, as a manipulation tactic. He resents it as the genuine display of kindness it often becomes.

Because Dick doesn’t know any better, than to be kind to these people. He doesn’t understand what unique and extraordinary level of filth they are.

But on some days, even some nights like these, Bruce wonders if he’s blind to it on purpose. If he chooses to remain naïve. Because if Dick ever gained a sense for the truly criminal… If he ever learned to see true evil, to perceive the rottenness of a man’s heart, he would see it everywhere. He would see it within Bruce himself. It would only require one look into the dark abyss inside him; he might understand, genuinely _understand_ , and never come back.

But as he’s thinking, hearing another sultry murmur from one of the sirens pressing herself against him—he didn’t know, didn’t care which one—he sees movement among the crowd, as people begin to part and step aside. Rising voices and curious comments, and a voice rattling off eloquent phrases and compliments as he makes his way through.

That boy…

He could never resist an opportunity to make an entrance.

A smile on his face, as he appears into view; that familiar smirk, revealed beneath an intricate mask of black wire and metal, a face half-obscured in darkness and faint sparks of blue when the light reflects in his eyes.

When he speaks, he’s almost beautiful; all the mask reveals is his elegant mouth. A half-amused murmur, as he slinks up closer, “I knew I’d find you.”

Dick exchanges a look, a single stare at the woman with the black hair, and she stares right back at him. A silent struggle for dominance, but there’s no question. Because when he sees something he wants, something that is rightfully _his_ , he won’t stand down.

That’s a trait that Bruce honestly, genuinely favors.

When the woman speaks, her voice is a rough hiss, “Busca a su propio.”

But with a quick glance to the side—the other faux twin is falling back, potentially not wanting a conflict—he takes advantage of the newly empty space on Bruce’s opposite shoulder and winds an arm around him.

Bruce feels a rush when Dick leans against him; he always does. And when he speaks, he’s pressing his weight against his arm, and it takes Bruce a unique amount of willpower to not complete the embrace and press their bodies closer together. Dick is warm; he’s breathing gentle and slow. His suit carries the faint scent of perfume.

That scent is disgusting. But he’s a hypocrite that can’t, and won’t judge. He doesn’t ever judge Dick. He doesn’t judge him for enjoying their affection. No, he judges the vultures that hunt him, that cling to him, that scatter their scents on his body.

When Dick responds to her, his voice is startlingly low. “Este es mío.”

He waits; he stares at her, glances to her friend that’s slowly retreating. Watches them intently, his body stiff, his posture upright, his arm gradually tightening its hold on Bruce. Watches them until they crawl away, slinking back into the mass of people, leaving nothing in their wake but the faint sparkle and shine of their evening dresses before they disappear.

When they’re alone again—or as reasonably alone as they could be in such a congested room—Dick’s entire being relaxes, every single muscle and bone as he slumps against Bruce, turning and leaning his face into the base of his neck. Bruce feels the edges and wireframe of his mask pressing sharply against his skin; when Bruce raises a hesitant arm to press against Dick’s back, he hears a small sigh.

“A bit possessive,” is the first thing Bruce says.

“I’m running low on patience today,” a quiet murmur chased by a small smirk at the end.

A quiet sound of contemplation; Bruce wants to say more than that, but words don’t come. And he’s not the kind of man to force them. So instead they remain in silence for a moment, as he gradually winds his arms around his partner, who’s slowly sinking further and further into his embrace. He’s breathing against his skin, and when he shifts and moves Bruce can feel those wires and glitter and rhinestones scratching against him, just below his jaw-line.

Dick almost laughs, as he purrs quietly, “You look scary.”

Bruce responds calmly, “I deemed it appropriate.”

_Because I am a monster, and you are…_

Dick pulls back, looking up at him. That remarkable blue, from those eyes framed in black. His gentle smile, the tease of smooth skin beneath the edges of his mask. Lips he wants to kiss, and the small suggestion of heavy eyelashes as his eyes blink slowly.

_You are beautiful._

They don’t think, before they kiss each other. Dick leans forward and Bruce moves down and they meet in the middle. It’s a gesture that’s as natural to them as breathing, as running alongside each other, as fighting together, as sleeping together, as _everything_ ; every time they make contact it’s a perfect routine they’ve refined. Days and months and years of sharing their lives together, even when apart. No distance could break this union; no distance makes them forget how to dance.

Bruce never gets tired of a kiss from Dick; because when they kiss, he feels love. A love unlike the act that Dick stages for everyone else. There’s no lie in his affection; there’s no pity or sympathy or misguided empathy in his touch, when he allows his hands to roam across Bruce’s back. And even as the kiss draws down, as Bruce savors the soft feel of his lips pressed against his for that brief instant in time, he feels a warmth, a unique closeness that lingers long after they separate.

And when he looks at Dick, even with half his face obscured, he can vividly imagine the expression he’s making beneath it. Because he knows his moods, his responses, and his reactions better than his own.

As lost as he sometimes gets in trying to understand himself, he never has to wonder about his lover. He never has to question. Even when he abuses his trust and hurts him, he knows what he did. He feels the guilt each time, because he never has to wonder about how to make Dick cry. He never has to question what it takes to drive him mad.

But when he holds him like this, and eases himself into the moment of Dick gazing upon him like this, so quiet, so calm, so peaceful, with a gentleness that drowns out the rest of the world, he doesn’t have it in him. Sometimes he finds it necessary, but he doesn’t like to hurt him. There’s no one that could hate him more than he hates himself, when those kind eyes turn to him with something born of resentment, and hatred.

But that’s only a half-truth. Dick could never hate Bruce. And he’s well aware of that fact. That only makes it worse.

That’s why Bruce forces himself to attend an event like this. Dick, the showman that he is, enjoys it. A moment in the spotlight, a chance to dazzle and shine; the alluring prospect of being bad, of being indecent, of winding his arms around his partner in plain sight. Where no one knows who they are, and the lives built on lies they lead; where no one cares about what’s beneath the façade of ornate masks and costume play.

So Bruce comes to an event like this. For his baby. For his bird.

Even if he hates these people, with their selfishness and their shamelessness and their misplaced arrogance. Even if he hates being here, like an insect trapped under a glass, even if he finds it difficult to remain calm when he’s accosted by women that follow him like shadows, and when Dick comes up to him wearing the scent of women that get aroused at the sight and the feel of him, the expensive fabric of his coat, the bare skin at his neck-

Bruce is kissing that neck, tasting that skin, eliciting small sounds of discomfort. And the more he thinks about it, the harder his tongue presses, the more prominent his teeth are against the gentle flesh. Women getting aroused, touching him and implying dirty things with their words. Voices inviting him into their bed, voices that will sometimes succeed when he doesn’t pay closer attention, when he’s not around. He starts to chew on his skin gently, teeth piercing into him as Dick starts to hiss, and Bruce is tasting the blood that drips out. Women that succeed in luring him into their bed, where he’ll fuck them, fuck them with a cock that doesn’t belong to them, fucking them better than they deserve. Because he’s lonely, because he’s distressed, because when he gets angry at Bruce he takes it out on himself, with a night of unfulfilling sex with whores that orgasm far harder than he will. He’s licking at the wound, as Dick starts to tremble, his body giving a slow shiver as his hands start to press into his back, clinging to him desperately as if he’s growing weak.

Women getting fucked by _his_ partner, unable to appreciate how special and incredible and amazing he is. Women that think he’s nothing more than a good lay, women that don’t call back the next morning-

Women that don’t love him.

Bruce bites hard enough to make Dick cry out loud, a startled yelp of pain as his body responds, his hips rolling themselves forward, pressing against his groin.

He shouldn’t be so judgmental. Dick doesn’t normally associate with that kind of trash. He has standards he normally likes to keep. Standards he prefer to uphold. When he’s not angry at Bruce, when their separation is more mutual than bitter. No, that’s when he fucks someone like Barbara, someone kind and compassionate. Someone normal and pleasant, to soothe him, to make him feel more alive and healthy, well-adjusted and normal.

But even though Dick is a beautiful bird, he was born wild. He needs to fly.

Bruce knows how to set him free.

Hips grinding against his, the heat of his groin spreading through him like fire; Dick’s tongue slips into his mouth, and beneath the clashing of masks and the anxious glances of half-hidden eyes are desperate mouths and desperate eyes sparking with desire.

His breath is hot and heavy; his tongue aggressive as they trade spit, kissing and licking and swallowing and sighing and breathing and-

They’re starting to get attention.

Bruce knows Dick enjoys it, so-

He relocates his hands, to rest firmly on the round and firm cheeks of his ass, giving a firm but intent squeeze as Dick whines into the kiss. He presses his body flat against him, knees sliding together, thighs touching, aroused cocks swelling and provoking each other beneath the thin layers of fabric. And Bruce’s hands tighten their grip, a slow massage as Dick rocks himself against him, slow and firm, slow and intent in a paced cycle that gradually increases its rhythm.

When their kiss breaks in a pair of mutual sighs, Bruce murmurs into Dick’s ear, “Should I take you here.”

As an answer, Dick buckles his hips forward with a strong jolt, and grinds slowly. Slowly, slowly…

But he gives a small comment, that appears to contradict; “Maybe we should find a place more private...”

He wisely doesn’t finish that sentence.

-

His definition of _private_ was more relaxed than Bruce had imagined. Dick had definitely not meant literally; not exclusively. Not actually.

Because even if they had left the main room, they were still fucking with masks and shirts still on—unbuttoned but on—jackets and pants and briefs on the floor, in a room frequented by many guests that strolled in, got an eyeful and left. Or stared in a kind of awe. The reactions varied.

But they were in their own world. They were secluded _enough_ ; enough to not be bothered or interrupted.

Dick’s legs are wound around Bruce’s waist, as he’s pinned between his lover and the wall, firm arms around his waist to hold him steady. Bruce is planting kisses along his neck, as Dick gasps and whines with every thrust. He clings to Bruce’s shoulders as if for dear life, clings desperately and firm when he feels a particular spark of pleasure, a heat that sparks and heightens as Bruce pushes up and into him, pushes up and uses his hands to nudge down at Dick’s waist to make sure he doesn’t move away. Bruce is intent on thrusting in as deep as possible, and Dick has the familiar and erotic sensation of feeling like a glove, completely filled every time his lover rocks up against him.

They fit together; it’s perfect, like this. Like their bodies were made for each other.

It takes a lot to find a partner as ideal for you as this; some people never do. Some people live their whole lives, and never experience the closeness, the balance, the rhythm, the coordination they did. When Dick starts to breath heavily against him, Bruce breathes in time against every rise and fall of his chest. When he starts to groan to himself, Bruce times his thrusts according to when he feels the strongest sensation. And when Dick relaxes against him, grows complacent enough to just remain there and take it, to take whatever Bruce has to offer him, not once does he relax his pace, not once does he relax in his mission, not once does he lose sight of the task at hand.

The task; to make Dick come as hard as possible. To make him scream and sob, and make a mess of himself right here, in this room of alarmed onlookers and shifty voyeurs.

Bruce feels their eyes on them. Wandering eyes, and hushed voices. Some amused; some curious. Some appalled, but what right do they have to judge. This is a party for monsters; it’s a event where the worst can mingle and feel a little less awful about themselves. And fuck them, if any of them feel inclined to turn a look of scorn on _them_. Fuck them if they feel inclined to judge his lover, as he starts to moan out loud, panting and groaning and helplessly whimpering to himself. Fuck them if they’re offended.

Bruce presses his lips against Dick’s flushed face, feeling the wire brush against his nose as he murmurs, “Let’s give them a show.”

Dick doesn’t respond; he just nods.

They’re kissing again. Dick’s tongue in his mouth, lips merged in a desperate struggle, exchanging breaths and muffled groans and sighs as Bruce slides his hands up to Dick’s back, holding him firmly as he takes a few steps away from the wall. Dick leans forward, shifts his weight and leans into that kiss as he loses its support.

Dick doesn’t know exactly how far they’ve moved; he hasn’t looked back to check. Kissing took a higher priority. There’s a hot mouth crushed against his and firm arms around his body and a throbbing cock inside his ass, pushing, pushing; few things took on greater priority.

Eyes on them. Anxious stares. Bruce increases the speed of his thrusts, and Dick is shuddering against him as he starts to lose his composure.

Dick’s mouth tastes like champagne. The scent of perfume radiates from his body as sweat starts to gather around his open collar. Perfume from women that would never hold him, women that would never hold him in their arms and cradle him like this, _this_ , exactly the way he loves-

He breaks the kiss to bury a moan against Bruce’s neck, shaking and trembling.

A murmur from Bruce, because he knows what he appreciates, what he needs; he says it with a quick kiss to his ear, “Touch yourself.”

Dick whines from behind another sigh, as he rolls his hips down onto another thrust, “T-,” he bites his lip and exhales slowly, “Too embarrassing.”

Bruce’s response is short and direct, “It’s necessary.”

Dick doesn’t respond to that; he can’t object. And he doesn’t fully know or understand what Bruce is implying, not completely.

Because Bruce understands his needs better than he does. He understands the height of his perversion. And what it takes to make him cry out, shake and come so hard he can’t see. To make him come so hard he just shakes, and shakes, helpless in his arms. Helpless and broken and beautiful until he puts him back together with a few kisses and a warm embrace.

When Dick positions and wraps one of his hands around his cock, he immediately stifles an, “ _Ugh_ ,” as he’s rolling his hips again, a roll that becomes a rock as he pushes himself down onto Bruce. Another thrust, and Dick stifles a moan as he bites his bottom lip, pressing his fingers tightly around himself. Another thrust, he sighs as he shudders once, just once, and spins his fingers around the head of his cock. Another thrust. He starts to jack himself, jacks himself to the rhythm of those thrusts, fingers pressing and rising and sliding down as his ass is pounded in, up and down with an increasing speed.

It’s indecent and it’s naughty; and eyes are on them and he’s panting and moaning and sighing. He’s starting to fall apart. He’s starting to crumble.

He won’t last much longer.

Bruce is trailing kisses across his neck, licking and kissing and sucking on the skin as their bodies shift and move together, his arms tight around his lover as he grows increasingly weak. Kissing and sucking and biting hard enough to leave bruises, he thrusts and rocks that agile body, feels the legs shift around his waist, and the broken tremble that runs through him.

Eyes are on them. Hushed voices. An unsettling state of near-silence beneath the sounds of their sex, wet and fast, wet and messy, kisses and come and lubricant running slick. And when he kisses at the edge of his lover’s face, kisses him repeatedly, he hears a familiar moan, a familiar sigh.

He wishes he could see the complete look on Dick’s face. He wants to see his eyes, his smooth skin flushed with pleasure. But that’s the sacrifice he makes. That’s the consequence of not being able to wait, of not waiting until they had their fun here, a few kisses and a few drinks and a night of sex when they were safely back in the Manor.

Sometimes he couldn’t wait. In more ways than one, Dick made him lose control. The loss of patience came first.

Second, was the loss of restraint.

He didn’t pride himself on being this shameless. He didn’t pride himself on being this vulgar.  
But fuck anyone that would say he couldn’t indulge.

He kisses the edge of Dick’s face; the boy turns to interrupt his next one, kissing him back. A sweet and fast kiss that becomes an open-mouthed caress as he’s shaking, shaking, shaking, shivering in his arms. His legs trembling, his body trembles; his hand moves fast and when he cries out into Bruce’s mouth, cries out and breaks the kiss to breathe a harsh, “ _God_ ,” against his shoulder, Bruce feels the unmistakable sensation of come spilling across his chest, sparks and drops that pool and harden warmly against his skin. When Dick looks back up, he kisses him one more time; sweet and slow, slow and affectionate. Feels his breathing slow down, feels him collect himself and relax as he continues to thrust into him, slow and deep, slow and deep as that intense heat builds inside him. Feels his lover’s come dripping down his skin, drops pooling warm and slick between a crevice where one of Dick’s legs is shifting and grasping against his waist.

He’s kissing Dick again when he comes; there’s no moan, no whimper, no sigh. In their place, a complete feeling of peace, the kind that only appears between them. The kind of solitude and silence and love and comfort that he thought could never exist in his life. It doesn’t matter where they are. It never matters where they are. In a car, in a bed, at a shady and low event like this; at the end of a night out, at the end of a long patrol, it doesn’t matter when.

Because when he comes he feels at peace, and when he kisses his bird he feels a sense of relief, like everything he’s done, every horrible and regretful and stupid thing he’s done could be forgiven.

Another half-truth. He knows he’s forgiven. Dick doesn’t hold a grudge. Not nearly enough of one.

His lover is giving that trademark smile, but it’s more gentle than usual; gentle and subtle, the kind reserved for him. And as they relax together, breathing slow and unwinding, he’s smiling and he wraps his arms around him tight, holding him close like something cherished and wonderful.

Maybe Dick knows he’s a monster. Maybe he’s already seen the darkness inside him.

But his bird, his beautiful and wild bird, he-

Dick kisses him on the neck, and a small laugh shakes his chest.

“What is it,” he murmurs.

“Nothing,” he says quickly; but then he pauses. Bruce can feel him pause, because for a moment, his entire body tenses.

And then it relaxes again.

A faint whisper into his ear, “I love you.”

Maybe he’s seen the darkness.

But he’s so brilliant, so full of light that-

Bruce reaches up, and winds a hand through his hair; a gentle caress that makes Dick curl against him like a contented cat.

He can walk into that darkness unafraid.

Bruce’s voice an equally faint murmur, “you too.”

He can bring him back to life.

_Even if I am a monster._

Dick gives another small laugh;

And there are no voices around them. No hushed sounds. No distant crying of violins. No echoes of shoes in the grand hall beyond the doorway. No clangs of glasses rattling together. No arrogant words and cruel rumors.

There is only that sound; beautiful and small.

_Even if you are too beautiful for me, like you always have been._

He dismounts Dick from him, dismounts his lover gently and Dick luxuriously crawls down and settles in front of him, standing in front of him with a smile lingering on his face. That smile, complete silence as Bruce pulls him close, and they share an embrace that is both profound and subdued, natural and perfect, their bodies fitting together the exact way they always have. The scent of sweat and old perfume and alcohol and Bruce doesn’t care where any of it came from.

Because the only scent that matters, that is predominantly emanating from Dick’s skin, is that of his cologne.

_I am yours._

It’s uncharacteristic and it’s almost bizarre of him to do, but he repeats it for emphasis.

“I love you.”


End file.
